


All In the Game

by deepandlovelydark



Series: That Deep Romantic Chasm, or Journey to the Center of the Neath [9]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, MacGyver (TV 1985)
Genre: Hallowmas 1895, Surface Life, general Neathy weirdness, great game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 16:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: “Trying to decide what confession Becky should hear?” Toby asks, seeing the Spy throw another crumpled slip away.“Yeah. Didn’t realise I had this many, to be honest…”





	All In the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Came up with half a dozen confession prompts as ideas for Tanista, re: Season of Secrets. Then I ended up writing them all myself. 
> 
> As you do. Though I didn't expect they'd turn out variations on a theme...
> 
> Copyright: "Fallen London is © 2015 and ™ Failbetter Games Limited: www.fallenlondon.com. This is an unofficial fan work.” And MacGyver is copyright either Paramount or Lee David Zlotoff, depending. Certainly not me.

_guile_

“About this Cheesemonger,” the Innocent Spy reads off the slip. That’s as far as he gets before binning it. 

Becky’s probably got a good idea which of several unpalatable options he chose, but he can’t face confirming her suspicions. Even a Hallowmas confessional can only go so far. Besides, she'd assume he needs absolution.

And he doesn't want, doesn't deserve, forgiveness for his decision. That kind of thinking has led nearly every Neathy player of the Game to take up irrigo as their drug of choice, burying their lives in a total disconnect between actions and morality. 

"Someone very wise once said, we buy our right to interfere at the price of total responsibility," he tells Toby. "Remember that, if you're thinking about a career in this business."

The Illuminated Rat says nothing, but his eyes are very bright. 

 

_violence_

_'Nam, 1970._

He knows how to use a gun. Even before the military, his Grandpa Harry had taught him the basics of loading, sighting, shooting (Harry cherishes some distinctly old-fashioned ideals as to what constitutes necessary life skills). As a ten year-old, he’d had no reason to mistrust the grandpa he idolised. 

Sensible advice, to be fair. “Don’t play around! Never point it at someone unless you mean to kill him.” 

Only now he's in a warzone, and does mean it. He hefts the weapon, fires. Someone dies. 

He wishes now he’d had Jack’s courage, and run off to be a draft-dodger instead.

 

_whimsy_

“I’ve always wondered,” Penny says, as they watch the LA skyline lighten against the evening. “How do you know you’re doing the right thing?”

“I don’t, honestly,” MacGyver says with a shrug. “I try to stay informed. I left the DXS, when it looked like they were moving too much towards banana republic operations. But on a day-to-day level you really just have to take your mission at face value. And I’m lucky. Not only do I trust Pete with my life, I trust him with other people’s lives.”

“You make it sound like you’ll quit when he retires.”

“You know, I think I probably will? By that point I’ll be getting too old for fieldwork. And the intelligence business is no place to get promoted out of your depth. ”

“Well. I think it’s awfully loyal of you.” 

After a moment, she adds, “But is that a good enough reason for hacking the Phoenix Foundation’s lighting system so that the building spells out ‘Happy Birthday Pete’?”

“I told security they should have patched that exploit ages ago. They kept giving me the brush-off,” Mac says, grinning. 

Pete comes out in a tearing hurry, stares up at the flickering message in complete horror. 

“But when he gets to work tomorrow and starts giving ‘em an earful? You better believe they’ll listen…”

 

_impropriety_

“I’m a demanding woman, MacGyver,” Maria says, batting her eyelashes. 

“I kinda noticed,” he says affably, pulling the blankets up. It’s been a while since he’s felt free to indulge in a night of quiet contentment like this. Lucky timing, for Becky’s school trip to coincide with Maria’s return from Brazil. 

Maria whispers to him, almost as if she’s been eavesdropping on his thoughts. “I could be around more, you know. Now I’m off that deep cover assignment- but I’d want you. Only you, all to myself.”

“Couldn’t do that,” he murmurs. “Some of us have nieces to look after.”

“A niece is not a daughter. We’re paid well enough- let her finish her education abroad! Switzerland, one of those nice boarding schools. They’re safe, too. It isn’t right, for a field agent of your caliber to take on these silly local jobs just for fear of what will happen if you leave her alone.”

Damn it, he should have known not to date coworkers. Maria Romburg isn’t a spy for nothing. 

“Think about it. Another year of daydreaming, wasting your life in simple volunteer work anyone could do, or coming back to where the real action is? We’d make the best partnership the Phoenix Foundation has ever seen, you know we would.”

“I’ll think it over,” MacGyver says. 

It surprises him that he actually does. 

 

_pride_

“Mac, wake up!”

“G’way, Jack. ‘m sleeping.” Which is about as much eloquence as his tired body can manage. Nine hours worth of jet-lag takes some getting over. 

“I know, but you asked me to swing by, remember? To take you to your niece’s-”

“-college graduation. Right, I remember now, because my truck’s getting a new coat of paint.” He sits up groggily. “What time is it?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Three? I said noon!”

Jack waves his hands helplessly. “Construction. You know what traffic’s like in LA these days.”

“Never mind that now,” MacGyver says, pulling on his leather jacket in a hurry - it’s not remotely suitable wear, but it’s close to hand and at least Becky will like it. “It’ll all be over by the time we get there. My niece is gonna kill us.”

They show up simultaneously with the cleaners. Becky’s glad to see them, of course, but he can’t help reading disappointment into her gaze. 

“Where were you?” she asks, in a whisper. “Was it some really top secret mission? Super confidential?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was. Sorry, Becky.”

“‘s kay,” she murmurs. “I know how important your work for the Phoenix Foundation is.”

Quite definitely a lie of omission. Commission, even. 

But explaining to his beloved niece that he simply slept through her whole diploma ceremony? Doesn’t bear thinking about. 

 

_curiosity_

He tells himself it’s for the sake of the cover that he’s allowed a London accent to creep into his speech. Abandoned his trusty Surface leather jacket, for watchful rags and a patent scrutinizer. Started dreaming of the Underzee’s dark peligin beauties, instead of the Pacific’s open tides. 

Then Becky comes back into his life, and the excuses start sounding increasingly thin when he says them aloud.

“We’ll get in touch with Pete, but we have time. Nearly a hundred years worth, in fact.”

“No, I don’t like guns any better than I ever did, but since a gunshot takes about a day to recover from, I’m not going to quibble with every acquaintance of mine who carries one.”

“Of course I’ve taken up drinking wine, it’s a pre-refrigeration culture. Haven’t I mentioned how dangerous well-water is, even if you do boil it?”

“I wouldn’t have commented, only you just spent ten minutes pontificating about your brand new cellar,” Becky says, turning her penknife’s screw round and round. “You sounded pretty excited about it for my teetotaler uncle.”

It’s as she pops the cork out, to the familiar, cheap tang of the ’79- as a scream resounds from above, an Urchin running the Flit paths in full cry- as the kitchen shutter bangs open, revealing London’s gas lights in all their brave, human glory against neath-night, that something turns over in his heart. 

The Bazaar’s web has entangled him; he’s hopelessly in love. Not with an individual, but with a way of being that answers all his wishes, a city of extravagant engineering and devious spying and (nearly) death-free dangers. Gratification that he only ever tasted in too-brief moments on the Surface, in the heat of a mission or the temporary satisfaction of a problem well solved: now on constant, blessed, ever-flowing tap. 

“I’ve found my addiction, all right,” the Innocent Spy says. “Not the wine. Or, you know what, even including the wine. This whole mad kit and caboodle, I couldn’t ever give it up now.”

Never mind the city of angels. He’ll take the devils on any day. 


End file.
